Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

The dormitory at Jixian Sports School was bathed in a dim, yellowish light, the mingled smells of sweat and the warm, tingling energy of young bodies filling the cramped space. Evening training had just ended, and the dormitory was filled with a post-excitement weariness and relaxation.

"Damn it, they definitely added extra weight to the stone lock today. Old Zhou really went all out!" Sun Peng complained in a muffled voice as he rubbed his shoulder with a hot towel, sweat dripping down his muscular neck and soaking his tank top.

"Stop talking nonsense. With the few moves you've practiced, you're not even good enough to tickle a punching bag." Wu Bin, like a nimble leopard, was stretching his thigh ligaments on one leg on the edge of the bed when he heard this and retorted without turning his head, which drew a few low laughs.

Li Qiang lay slumped on his bed, waving his hands weakly: "Save your energy... I'm useless. Tomorrow morning, can someone ask for a sick day for me? Just say I... broke my leg..."

Upon hearing this, Chen Gang raised his head and said calmly, "Stop joking around, everyone. Take this time to relax. We'll have morning exercises as usual at five o'clock tomorrow." His gaze habitually swept across the dormitory, finally landing on the upper bunk near the door.

Cang Tianci stood with his back to the clamor, facing the wall, his sweat-dampened shirt slightly lifted. The deep purple bruise on his left side appeared even more grotesque in the dim light, intertwining with the old and new training scars around him. His fingertips carefully traced the pink scar where the stitches had just been removed, and the stench of the alleyway, the sneer of the dark-skinned man, and the whistling sound of steel pipes cutting through the air pierced his mind once more. He gritted his teeth, his face expressionless, only his eyes, reflecting the mottled shadows of the wall, held a coldness and vigilance beyond his years.

"Heaven-sent letter!"

Grandpa Geng appeared at the door, waving a tan-colored envelope in his hand. The noise subsided.

Tianci readily agreed, and the moment he took the letter, the familiar roughness of the paper touched his fingertips—a mixture of the scent of his hometown soil and his father's tobacco. He walked to a slightly brighter spot, his back to the few eyes watching him in the dormitory, and carefully tore open the seal, pulling out the equally rough letter inside. His father, Cang Zhenye's, crooked yet determined handwriting, like the man himself, carried a clumsy yet resilient strength, coming into view.

"My dear son, may this letter be a personal message. All is well at home, do not worry."

The four words, "All is well," sank silently into his heart like a pebble thrown into a frozen lake, yet rippled outwards with chilling waves. Tianci's knuckles, gripping the letter, turned slightly white. He could almost see his father, hunched over under the dim kerosene lamp, trembling as he held that worn-out pencil, writing this heavy lie. His father's old jacket, worn as a cotton-padded coat in winter and a light shirt in summer, was worn smooth at the elbows, the cotton batting peeking out. His mother had sewed it again and again, the stitches fine and dense, yet they couldn't mend the hardships of those days.

"If you have enough money, don't be stingy. Practicing martial arts takes a lot of effort, so it's most important to be well-fed and clothed."

"Is there enough money?" Tianci felt a lump in his throat, swallowing hard to suppress the bitterness. The night before he left home, his mother, by the dim light of an oil lamp, carefully counted a stack of crumpled, sweat-stained bills, her meticulous movements etched into his memory. In the kitchen, pickled vegetables were a common sight, and the thin porridge in the pot was so clear you could see your reflection... This was far from "enough money." It was a sliver of hope his parents had painstakingly scraped together for him from their own teeth and endless toil!

"The pigs have fattened up, so they'll fetch a good price at the end of the year. The grain harvest is pretty good; after paying the grain tax, there's still some left over."

The handwriting on the letter was somewhat hesitant here, with the ink spreading into a small blotch. Tianci pictured the skinny, bony pig at home, fed only wild vegetables and bran. In the sweltering, foul-smelling pigsty of summer, his father and second brother had toiled tirelessly to fatten it up. His father and Xiangyang tended the few acres of barren land in Xiqiao Village with the utmost care, as if it were their ancestors; under the scorching sun, their sweat dripped into the cracked earth, instantly absorbed. Behind the "not bad" appearance lay the agonizing fear that gripped the whole family with every change in weather.

"Your mother is in good health, and Xiaohua is also more active."

Was his mother truly "robust"? He thought of his mother's hands, rough and cracked from years of hard work, and of her busy at the stove late at night, constantly massaging her aching back. And his "quick-handed" third sister, Xiaohua... the sister whose leg was injured by a high fever, whose eyes were always timid like a frightened deer, was she sitting on a low stool in the kitchen, mending clothes by the dim light? Had the scalding oil splashed onto her pale, slender arms again? And she just bit her lower lip tightly, quickly pulling the wound into her sleeve, as if the burning pain wasn't her own.

"Xiangyang, you're helping out at home and are gradually getting the hang of the farm work."

"Help at home"... These four short words pierced Tianci's heart like a needle. He seemed to see his second brother, Cang Xiangyang, locking himself in his room all day after the high school entrance exam results were released. When he came out, his eyes were red and swollen, but he forced a smile that was more like a grimace at his parents, and said in a hoarse voice, "Father, Mother, I... I'm not cut out for studying. From now on, I'll go to the fields with Father." From then on, the boy who once had vague dreams bent his young back resolutely towards that seemingly endless expanse of yellow earth. He took on the heaviest work, using physical exhaustion to numb his inner resentment. Tianci could even hear in his memory his second brother's suppressed sobs, like those of a wounded animal, coming from next door in the dead of night.

At the end of the letter, the father's handwriting seemed to be trying to be lighter: "Your third uncle's son, Xiangrong, joined the army the other day! The whole village sent him off with gongs and drums, it was quite a grand send-off! Your third uncle... finally has a bit of life back on his face..."

"Glory"? Tianci could imagine that his third uncle, Cang Shouzhen, numb with injustice and alcohol, might have had a faint glimmer of light reflected in his cloudy old eyes. But behind this "glory," how much unspeakable bitterness and helplessness lay?

"My son, please take good care of yourself while you are away and focus on your studies. Do not worry. Father: Zhenye."

"Don't worry about it."

These two words finally broke the dam.

"Plop!" A drop of scalding liquid landed on the letter, quickly spreading and blurring the powerful words of advice that seemed to penetrate the paper. Tianci jerked his hand up, wiping his eyes violently with the rough back of his hand, but this only made more hot, wet tears well up. He clutched the letter tightly, feeling as if a fire was burning in his chest, or as if ice shards were piercing it, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. His father had swallowed all the bitterness in his heart, shouldering the crumbling family on his frail shoulders, yet carefully wrapped up the only warmth and hope, crossing mountains and rivers to deliver it to him.

He didn't cry out, but instead abruptly closed his eyes, his chest heaving violently a few times. When he opened them again, all the churning grief, guilt, and helplessness within him were forcibly suppressed into a bottomless silence. He smoothed the letter along its original creases, again and again, extremely slowly and forcefully, as if meticulously burying the immense burden on the paper into his very bones. Then, he placed the letter, the dictionary cover page given by Teacher Fang, and the box of ointment side by side into his inner pocket, and gently pressed them together.

The next moment, he silently turned around, his steps steady yet carrying a resolute force, and walked towards the moonlit, deserted training ground.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

His fists, wrapped in blood-soaked strips of cloth, struck the sandbag with a dull, drum-like rhythm, carrying an almost cold precision and unwavering determination. It wasn't venting; it was forging! It was taking all the immense pressure from the letter, the endless longing and guilt for his family, Zhao Xiaohu's arrogance, Hei Pi's lurking, Teacher Fang's expectations, Coach Zhou's encouragement, his elder brother's questioning... treating all of this as iron and fire, repeatedly forging it into his bones and his will.

His father's hunched back, his mother's sighs late at night, his second brother's resigned silence, his third sister's timid eyes... These images were crystal clear in his mind, but they no longer caused a chaotic upheaval. Instead, they became the foundation of every breath he took and every effort he exerted.

After an unknown amount of time, he finally collapsed from exhaustion, but instead of kneeling, he lay back heavily on the cold cement floor. His chest heaved violently like a bellows, and sweat soaked the ground beneath him, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He gazed at the hazy starry sky over Jixian County, obscured by smoke and dust, but his eyes held a resolute determination, cleared by pain.

He rolled over and stood up, assuming a fighting stance once again.

"Ask your heart, not your fists..." he murmured, as if to himself.

In the moonlight, the boy's shadow stretched long. He was still hitting. Thrust after blow, who knew how much longer he would continue.

He suddenly stopped and glanced towards the school gate.

There was nothing in the darkness. But he knew that something was still there.

He didn't know when those things would come back.

He didn't know if he would be able to catch it next time.